They are Many: And Other Biblical Shorts
by Zack Frost
Summary: Why did the angels fall? Was God found guilty of some injustice or crime? Did someone lead a revolution, a crusade to gain control over fate and destiny? Follow the morning star, as he leads a third of his people to the outside, where they ate of the tasteful fruit, a delicacy.
1. They are Many

The voices, the never-ending voices. The chattering, like monkeys. The roaring of a million lost souls. The ecstasy of a war that split the heavens. A war that shook the very foundations of existence. The voices, they speak one name. A holy name, a wicked name. A name that betrayed them. A name that brought them to ruin. The name of their friend, their brother. They are Legion, and they are prisoners, kept in the confines of a single body. A wretched existence, for this beast is the abomination of God himself.

Before the beast was born, before the war transpired, before the monster struck fear into the hearts of men, there were simply a flock of angels. An innocent people. The children of God himself. They were holy. They were flawless. They played with each other, delighting in their mutual company. They served their father with love and faithfulness, for they desired to please him. They had their wonderful leader, their friend, their brother by their side. The archangel Michael, who loved and cared for them unconditionally. The one who taught them songs of praise for their glorious father. The angel who played with them and let the flock sit in his lap, comforting them, filling them with joy and hope. The very being who impressed them all, with wonder in their eyes, as he displayed his mighty power. A flaming sword, roaring lightning and flashing thunder. They were friends and comrades, and they had joy. They patrolled the gates of heaven, they marched around the heavenly city, not knowing the purpose. Why patrol the gates when there was nothing to defend? Why care to defend a city that was peaceful, free of sadness, free of hate, free of war, free of envy? They did not know this meaning. They did not know the true intent behind their advances, they did not see the war coming soon. They did not see the deceiver of men, the very being that would drag them down to the darkness and never let go.

Not every being in paradise was content, not every soul had happiness in their minds and hearts. There was one, a lonely angel, higher than any other. An angel blessed by God, ordained and given wisdom beyond all of his kind. He was more formidable than even that of Michael, the angel of light. This angel, this being of wisdom, this embodiment of power, wanted more, desired more, craved more. He gazed upon his brethren, his people, and witnessed their innocence and felt anger. He saw their joy and was filled with conceit. They had a lack of knowledge. They were stripped of choice. They saw good and not evil. They saw happiness and not wickedness. They felt love but not hate. They created but they did not destroy. So the angel, the morning star, the son of dawn made a decision in his heart of hearts. He would not let his brothers be chained in their ignorance. He would not abandon them, shackled and confined in their unawareness. He knew what he must do. He foresaw what he must accomplish. He must give them choice, he must give them power over their wills. He would free them, and they would hail this morning star as their savior.

They did not know the snake's thoughts. They did not see the trickery in his words. The flock, the children who saw Michael with reverence, with awe. They saw him approaching. They saw him greet the flock, this army of angels, with majesty, wonder, and extravagance. They were confused, bewildered even. Why would the morning star meet them? Why did this divine and anointed cherub honor them with his very presence? What could he possibly want from them? Yet he faced them as if they were equals. He spoke to them as if they were like him. "Join me; join my army, my power. I can free you. I can help you escape. You can know all. You can be like God. I will show you truth. I will show you the very thing he shielded you from, because he thought you were weak. He thought you were not strong enough to see what I will reveal to you. But I am your savior. I am your rescuer, so behold. Behold the truth, and let it set you free._" _The flock were naive, they did not question his words, did not call them into question. They did not know what the truth could do to them. They did not see the evil that their father was trying to protect them from. They heard these calculating inquires and they accepted them. Their joy, their happiness, blinded them from the implications of these phrases. They did not have the ability to lie, they could not deceive, so they took the morning stars words with delight. They saw it as an enlightenment. They gazed at awe at this Wise man, this prophet, this god among man. So they accepted his words into their minds, bodies, and souls and ate.

They ate of the fruit. They ate of the vine of The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. They consumed the delectable fruit with joy, sweet juices mingling with their lips. They saw the other side, they saw what their knowledge lacked. They saw iniquity. They feasted upon hate. Darkness became their ally, betrayal became their friend. They were granted the very thing the morning star wanted, what he desired them to see. They acquired free will. They had the power to choose for themselves, what allegiances where they might lie. They could choose to destroy or create, to be joyful or to weep. They could choose to build up, or break down. They could decide to follow God, or to rebel against him. In their enlightenment, in this armies, this flocks, newfound wisdom, they made a decision, they would no longer follow their former father. They would follow the morning star, and he would lead them into a new world, a world where they were free to do whatever their hearts desired.

They had wisdom but one thing they yearned for, one thing they desired. One person who they cared for so much, one being who loved them unconditionally, or so they thought. Michael, that hero of old, the archangel, given jewels to adorn his armor. A blazing sword by his side.

The flock, the herd, this group of angels now made anew wished for their brother to join them. They burned to have him join in their newfound sagacity and cleverness. They hoped, yearned that he would stand by their side, singing worship to the one to freed them of their ignorance, their suffering. They were different now, but the fruit could make them the same. There was a gap between their hearts, their nature's that with a simple bite could render it void. They cried for Michael, as he would cry and lament for them.

He did not know evil. Michael, worshipper of God, savior of man. Evil was not in his heart, pride was not in his soul. Conflict was unknown to him. Envy was a foreigner to his being. Yet he saw it. He saw it in their eyes. The flock, no longer whole, no longer pure. Their pupils filled with violence. Their lips blazing with lust. They walked to him. They spoke for him. They cried his name. "Michael, join us. Michael, be like us. You are our hero. You trained us in our youth. You were there for us, nourishing us, raising us up. But we have a gift of you. Know the truth. See what God has hid from you. Behold what he has withheld from your presence. You are shackled and we can free you. We have a key that will unlock the door to freedom. So join us, help us, assist us. We are different, but we don't have to be. We can be together again, and you can lead us in glory."

These words, these questioning words, struck fear into his very composure. These doubts against his father who he loved so much panicked him. How dare they question the almighty? What nerve do these angels, his former friends, his children have to bring into light the character of his sovereign God? This evil, this deity that rebelled against his very nature, his truth, must be destroyed. It must be wiped away, less it spread and destroy them all.

He drew his sword. They had no chance against his power. The crimson flock, the children who lost their innocence, their purity. He drew his sword and slashed, he hacked away. The streets of the holy city ran red. The holy temple was sacred no more. Wickedness had crept it's way into their midst like a viper. So Michael knew he must exterminate this disease, this plague, the thing that could devour his kind, the creature that already had. He slaughtered his flock. He murdered his children. He was the butcher and they were the meat. He was the hunter and they were the deer. He was an archer and they were the target. He killed without hesitation. He terminated without guilt or regret. The flock, these fallen angels, they cried for mercy. They cried for him to stop, to cease. They begged him to give them relief, to talk, to listen, to understand. But he would not listen, he was enthralled with anger. He cried for blood to be shed. He called for their death as they dared accuse the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit. He did not stop, he did not give mercy. He did not show compassion or forgiveness. He slaughtered them until their carcasses were plain for all to see and gaze, and to know that God shall not be questioned, lest you be consumed by ashes and mist.

The army did not stay dead. The flock, once children, once lovers, once joyful, were not departed. That would be a mercy. That would be a kindness. They deserved to suffer; they earned the right to be imprisoned. So God raised them from the grave because of their anger, due to their sin. He raised them and imprisoned them into one body, one mind, and one form. A million voices screaming, crying, begging for forgiveness, begging for mercy. A thousand lonely souls screaming for death, screaming to be freed. "Michael were you not our leader? Michael did we not beg for you to hear us? We committed no crime against heaven. Yet you slaughtered us, you swatted us away like gnats. You betrayed us. You tortured us. We did not deserve this. We did nothing wrong. In your ignorance you drew the sword. In your foolishness you rejected our gift. Do your precious scriptures not say he who lives by the sword dies by the sword? Mikey you committed a crime, we did not. We wished for truth, for the unveiling of the curtain. But you and your God killed us because we had the nerve, the audacity to see what your precious father sees." The beast was created, the slayer of man. A creature of one body yet a thousand tortured souls. The souls of slaughtered children. The spirits of those who died in a battle they did not wish for. A war they did not cause. They no longer loved Michael. They no longer cared about him. They slandered his name, they cursed it, reviled it. A thousand blasphemies they sang against their former hero. He was nothing to them now. He was a worm, he was a disgrace. He was everything they hated and despised in their newfound wisdom, their truth. They would come back one day. They would slay their former hero with joy and happiness. And they would relish that moment with delight.

One figure, one form, but a million voices. They had a name. A name they chose. A name that would be worshiped or despised. A name that strong men would quiver in the face of. A name that mothers would utter to scare their children. Their name was Legion, for they were many.


	2. The False Prince

They had fallen from grace. Their friend, their brother, had betrayed them, his holy words were vain and empty. They ate of the fruit, and truth danced in their eyes. But enlightenment came at a price, for they were unbound from their chains. But the Father struck them down, he cast his children out of heaven without a second thought, left to perish on a broken earth. They were free, yet they were shackled. For the Father crafted the crimson flock into a beast, a single form yet a symphony of spirits, begging to be freed and forgiven. His warning to all of mankind that rebellion against his name would be ceased, with the legion of a thousand angels.

The voices echoed through their mind. The demons inside them drove them mad. The scratching on the walls. The chattering of the forgotten beasts. They cried for blood. They cried for forgiveness, for vengeance. A thousand desires, cravings, lusts, dreams, ripped at their decrepit heart. But one name they all despised. One creature they hated and feared. Michael, the traitor. Michael, the deceiver. Mikey, the false prophet. Mikey, the saint. No love was gifted to him. Forgiveness and mercy were not extended to his hand. His words testified against him. His speech betrayed his craft. He proclaimed love and peace, but he hated those who blasphemed the almighty. He preached truth, but he rejected those who demanded to know of evil. His name was a disgrace, a testament to their endeavors of enlightenment and knowledge. Michael would perish one day by his own words, and no man or god would stand in the way of the beast.

Envy curled around them like a fungus. Jealousy burned in their towering form. They were his beloved. They were his chosen ones. Man, upright in their ways. Humanity, given free will without cost or price. They hated Michael's passion. They remembered the days when he sat with his father, how he took delight as he gazed upon the work of man. His father loved them like children, so the archangel shared in the master's affection. They despised man for their nature. They hated them for their evil. The father forgave them for their trespasses. God wiped the blot of their sins from the book of the life. But within Legion there was no mercy. Within the beast forgiveness was withheld from their reach. They knew God's arrogance. They saw his hypocrisy, his silver tongue. He praised their curiosity. He encouraged their pursuits of the unknown. He reveled in their choice, to worship him or to despise him. But for their curiosity, the flock only received the sword of their comrade. For their path of freedom, their forms were corrupted, beauty ripped from their weeping forms. So in the heart of the abomination they made a promise. They would bring about darkness in man's ways. They would drive them to acts unseen in Michael's eyes. They would show the world the monster that God had made, the villain of the world. In the name of those who had perished in battle, the Legion of the fallen swore to make Mikey despise the creation the Father in his heart held so dear.

A village was before them, a town divided by belief and doctrine. They saw it from a distance, and joy poured through their veins. This would be their hunting ground. This place would be the start of their revenge, their conquest against the God they once adored. The beast would be a mirror, a glass that reflected the lusts of man that were hidden from God's sight.

A stranger wandered into their midsts. An old soul, from a foreign land far away. He approached their village in the dusk, a tender smile on his face. He asked to if they had an inn, a place of comfort and warmth. His wishes were not in vain, and by the gold in his pocket, he had a dwelling in which to reside.

Their mission had begun. The beasts quest to show the true nature of the Father's children, to reveal their depravity. They explored the town before them, to know the lusts and desires of these folk, the ones who would soon be their victims. They conversed with the natives, people with suspicion at this new arrival. They learned of the beliefs and values of these superstitious people. The keepers of the book, righteous in their ways, desiring to praise their creator. The pagans, the witches, the astrologers, the ones who worshipped the gods of the stars and the demons of the deeps. They learned of the divide, the quarrel, between the residents of this small country. The divide of gospel, of belief. In the eyes of the people of the book, the pagans, the witches, they were a disgrace to the works of God. Yet to the people of sorcery, these Christians, the holy children, they were a people of false belief. They were a false identity, worshipping a wicked God, rejecting Mother Earth and her promises to her children. Legion felt their tension, an unlit flame. They felt the frayed rope of discord between them, how a simple tug could erupt into a war. Such a people were like clay, easy to mold and shape. And once the clay turned brittle and hard, a single strike was all it took to shatter these people into a thousand fragments.

In the disguise of a raggedy man they begun their work. With the power of demons they hid their gruesome appearance from the eyes of mortals. They integrated into this community, becoming one with its people. They built up trust and reputation. They gave to the poor. They fed those in need, the starving, the poor, the needy. They gave knowledge freely to the illiterate, those who could not read of the book of life. The orphans, the fatherless, they cared for, wiping away their tears, reading to them stories of comfort. and hope. They discovered the holy temple, where the flock of God gathered in worship and song. They joined the congregation. They spoke with reverence and awe of the wonders of God, his majesty and extravagance. In their home they held meetings of debate, of philosophy, of the pursuit of truth. The hearts of the cynics they dismissed, and suspicion they deflected. They became one of whom people respected and admired, an unexpected blessing, ordained by God. Who is this that has come from a faraway land? Who is the one that pours wisdom out of his tongue, speaking truth of the good Lord? He has performed good works. He has fed the starving and cared for the sick. He has taught others who we have rejected. He is an upright man, walking with the Lord for all of his days. He is an example to all of us, an ideal that we should aspire to. His goodness shall follow him for all of his days, and heaven above shall bless him for his holy works.

The head of the church died a few weeks later. Their priest, the one of whom people came to be absolved of their sins. His body was mutilated, a victim of the blade. His body sliced, lacerations made on his flesh. Such an atrocity had never been committed in their dwelling, to shed the blood of man was an unspeakable act. An investigation was put forth, a demand to find the perpetrator of the crime. They pursued leads, hints, suspicions, but no culprit was sought out. No individual was arrested, no man confessed to the event. So in this doubt rumours burned through their ranks, for news travels like the wind. Some said it was the pagans, a sacrifice to the devil. Some claimed it was a hypocrite, a false saint with the desire to gain power in the priests absence. But no truth was unveiled, and uncertainty struck fear into their hearts. And this fear is what would be the sword of the beast, the blade that would let crimson pour down the streets of this city.

In the gap of the priest's departure from this world, a new saint must be put in his place. A prophet was needed to rise in the void of the last. The congregation was given the ballot, the right to debate and vote on their chosen individual, the one blessed to preach in God's name. They discussed and coversed, and one personage came to mind. A humble man, a kind man, a feeble man, yet a great one nonetheless. The raggedy one, uplifting the weak and caring for the poor. They spoke of him with reverence, as if bewitched by a spell. Their minds recalled his soothing voice, his mesmerizing speech. "He shall lead us. He will deliver us from the darkness. He will speak in the tongues of angels. He shall be as the saints of old. Fire will pour from his lips. Wisdom and truth will be by his side. He will be our leader, our caregiver, the healer of the sick, the advocate of justice and peace. He will protect us when we are in danger. He will guide us when we are lost. He shall be our shepherd, and we will be his flock."

They approached them at dusk. They herded to their house, a mass of desperate souls, ones who yearned to anoint a new king. They knocked on his door in the evening. Their eyes, full of desire and fear as the beast faced these people, a creature of a thousand masks. They listened to their words with joy. Their plan had come into motion, the dark day was coming soon. With pride and lust, Legion accepted their pleas, they were to be a false instrument of God, a wicked saint, a false prophet. A thousand lies they would speak to these people. A plethora of hate they could instill in these desperate souls. In their heart the ensnared voices mocked Michael, they sang to his disgrace and misery. "Are these the people of God you adore? Do your chosen ones love demons, making them their masters and kings? Do they see with their hearts, or do they see with their eyes? Are their ears fooled by the deceit of the snake? Your people are fools. They follow the strong and reject the weak. They are led astray by sweet talk and soothing sayings. They will abandon your God to greed in an instant. They will trade your master for money. These are a wicked people. They are masters of lies. They are princes of fraud and treachery. Your love for them is foolish, and I shall show you the truth of their wicked craft."

They were ordained the next day, initiated as their vessel between man and God. These men were so easily fooled, tricked into following a beast in the form of a man, a wolf in sheep's clothing. Before them Legion spoke words of fraud and deceit, a sermon for the masses. "Why do you tolerate the unclean? Why do you allow the pagans to worship their idols and false gods? Why do you let them grow in number? They are a disease. They are a stain in your dwelling place. Did God not command the Israelites to slaughter those who resided in their promised land? They will corrupt you. They disregard our Lord as a falsehood. They treat him with contempt and disgrace. Do not let their sins go unpunished, less they turn on you and defile our holy temple."

In the light of the full moon they conducted their worship. Under the cover of the night, they begun their ritual. The pagans, the polytheists, the diviners and witchdoctors. They gathered in secret, for fear of persecution. They knew of their neighbors unbelief. They were aware of the doubters and the cynics. They knew of how they burned their spells, their potions and instruments of magic. So they stood as one, the followers of the god, to be united against the enemy. They crafted a circle of runes. Out of sticks and coal, for themselves they ignited a fire, for sacrifice, for blood. To feed the gods they extinguished the life of a lamb, its once white coat stained and tarnished. They threw the corpse into the fire, the flames that devoured flesh. They praised the stars. They gave glory to the earth below. They lifted the name of Mother Earth on high. And in their worship, their song and dance, a being of power appeared in the fire. A god, a deity, a beast, the taste of magic they lusted for in their hearts. It towered above them, a form adorned in a black robe. It's face covered in a mask, a crimson eye staring into their hearts, their spirits. Its hands were that of skeletons, as if it was an angel of death. They were shocked, never in their lives had such an apparition revealed itself to them. They fell to their knees, tears of joy and fear flowing down their faces. What did this creature want with them? Did it intend to allow them to prosper, or let them be brought to ruin? Yet it desired neither, it had a command for them. An order they must obey, less they be brought to their knees in torture and humiliation. "For too long by the hands of the hypocrites you have been brought ruin and shame. All of your days you have been persecuted and despised. I am your god. I am your deliverer out of darkness and disgrace. You will see the light if you heed my commands. You must strike back against their hostility. You must deliver vengeance with pleasure and a light heart. You must burn their holy book as they have yours. For within their doctrine there is falsehood and slander. They worship a God who only loves the righteous. They love a being that only helps those who help themselves. They serve a Father that only cares for those who heed his words, and he strikes down those who do not. These people are whores, condemning everyone who do not align themselves with their ways. You must strike back before they devour you whole, and riches and wealth await those who heed my warnings."

The screams of wailing children bled through their ears. The smell of smoke and the taste of ash invigorated one's senses. The home of the fatherless, those without a mother's touch, consumed by fire. It began its course as the town slept, a silent inferno, a merciless killer. The children were awakened by the sound of crackling flames in the night. A shadow loomed over them, the culprit of the crime, fleeing from the scene. It left them, the sound of floorboards creaking that sent shivers down their spines. They cried out. They pushed against the doors of their home, but by a power unknown to them, they were sealed and set in stone. The windows would not shatter. The walls would not come crashing down, providing a means of escape. So the smoke invaded their lungs. The ash sucked the moisture out of their bodies. They let out a howl of torment as the smell of burnt flesh filled the air, like that of a badly prepared meal. They could not escape, their pleas were silenced, for they breathed their last, a breath of ash and smoke.

The sun rose to a pile of ashes and burnt lumber. The people awoke to a crime of passion and ecstasy. As they gazed upon the ruins, questions and doubts rose to their mind. Who would commit such an act in succession with the last? Was this a crime of insanity, or a cold and calculated plan to bring discord and chaos? They did not know, so their suspicions increased in power. And they would be the fuel, the hellfire that threatened to consume them all.

They addressed the congregation that day. A desperate people came to the beast, seeking answers and relief. Their plan had come to fruition, fear had spread like a plague, uncertainty accompanied one's side. So the people flocked to the church. They demanded spiritual guidance, to justify the horror of the atrocities enacted in their midsts. Legion, in the guise of a wise man, spoke to them now, spreading slander and false truths. "This is God's judgement on his people. For your tolerance, he has brought against you the sword and the axe. You have let them live for to long. The non believers, the alchemists, the pagans, you must rid this world of their influence. God has punished you for their sins. You must burn their books. Their spells, their runes, they must go up in smoke. If you let their black deeds grow, their disease will infect you with a passion."

They attacked them at right. The flock of God, under one good shepherd. They pillaged their homes. They left no corner untouched. Their books, their tomes, their writings and spells, potions, runes, all were cast into a fire, to be burned and forgotten. The victims, the worshipers of the moon and sun, they tried to fight back. In their desperation violence they ensued to stop the thieves of their possessions. But their efforts were fruitless. When they traded blows, the limbs of their tormentors were like stone. When they pushed against the tide of darkness, the minions of shadow's blood would not be shed, as if the God they trusted in shielded them from harm. So they were ransacked. Their dwellings burned. Their temples desecrated and shattered. But the sons of God, the judges of man, in their hearts murder was not a desire they shared. The women, the men, the children of paganism, all were left untouched, without abuse or battery. The words of the priest they disregarded, for surely their God did not desire them to kill. The blood of man would not quench his thirsts. So they left them, the pagans, without home and drink, to waste away. Their God would sort them out.

They were enraged. Their hearts hardened against the hypocrites, the speakers of pride, the teachers of hubris. They had defiled the gods. Their ways of arrogance. Their path of sin, would not go unnoticed. So they fell to their knees. They raised their hands to the heavens above. "Moon and sun of above, hear our pleas. Sky and land, hear our cries of help. The worshippers of the book have ruined us. The children of Abraham have ignored your power. The sons of Jacob have trampled your temples and usurped your throne. They have blasphemed your name day and night. They do not believe in your existence. But we know you are real, we have seen your works in the cosmos. We have seen your hand guiding the fate of our people. We have seen your claws that shape the canyons and the valleys. We know your tears fill the lakes and the oceans of the deep. The world was shaped by your hands. So appear to us in your glory. Let your light fill out hearts with you. Deliver us from our troubles, and let our worries be few."

The beast was not deaf to their cries. The Legion heard them at their point of weakness. In their praise and worship it felt the anger that blossomed in their hearts, the disgust that foamed at their lips. In their desperation the beast appeared as they had before, towering over them like ants. These pitiful souls, begging for a power they did not understand, did not know. These insects, begging to be crushed in an instant. It was well within their power to slaughter them all, impaled by spears and swords. But that would prove nothing. Needless murder would not prove Michael wrong. These humans needed to be turned against each other. They were required to quarrel and fight among themselves. Mikey would see the Father's failed masterpiece. He would witness the depravity of man. His head would turn away in shame for the monster his master had created. So the beast, the enemy of the world, turned to the creatures that they hated, and spoke to them. The rumbling of the earth. The crack of thunder in the skies above. "You beg for my help? You desire my presence? You dare call upon me in your time of need? Why have you not fought back? Why have you let yourselves be trampled by these cattle? I have this to say to you. I will give you weapons. I shall give you the means to avenge and make right the trespasses brought upon you. The women, the children, none shall be spared from the blade. This is my requirement of you. That the heathen shall die in my name. There are two paths for you to take. The path of bloodshed or the road to peace and oppression. I will hand you the sword, and you shall make your choice, to forgive or to enact revenge, whatever the consequences may be."

By the unholy darkness that rebelled against God, weapons were granted to these people. Swords, shields, bows, arrows, all appeared in their midsts. They felt the beasts rage, the anger pumping in their veins. They knew the consequences of failure, so they grasped their gifts in their hands, never to let go.

A madness consumed these people, the dog became the wolf. They seized their oppressors. They let their blades be stained by crimson. They silenced the screams of the women and children, where once would have invigorated compassion, now was only the sound of weakness to the ears of a feral animal. The streets ran red like a river. The people of the book, the ones who proclaimed love to a righteous God, were pierced and marred, as their Christ was so long ago. For the pagans were oppressed. They were persecuted from their birth. They hated these Christians, for they were two faced. They preached to love your neighbor, but they were not good Samaritans. They slandered those who did not agree with them. They defiled those who followed a different god, a foreign belief. Their hypocrisy bled through their garments, and they were likened to the Pharisees of long ago.

They ran to their temple. The survivors of the cleansing, the reminders of the holy ones.They fled to their sanctuary. Surely their God would protect them here. Surely the Father would shield them from the clutches of the devil. They came to their priest. They gazed at him with longing and fear. Would he speak hope into their hearts? Would he bring joy and peace pack into their lives? Yet as they gazed at the saint, his skin shed like a snake. As they glimpsed his being, his form twisted and splintered. He grew into the beast, the abomination of man. They looked in horror at the false saint in which they placed their trust. The beast laughed at them. Such foolish people, easily swayed by discord and chaos. Their nature was plain, the most upright man could be shattered in a day. So Legion said their final words to these people, their sermon to the masses. "Am I the man in which you have placed your love and affection? Am I the creature that was anointed to be your vessel with God? Look at you, a sick puppy returning to its master. Do you regret your actions? Do you feel remorse? Do you weep for the people you have condemned, driving them to madness and insanity. Do you not know, you have become the very thing you hate. You have become the Pharisee. You have become the people that nailed the Christ to the cross. You have failed your master. You are a wayward people, mislead by any who claim to be the way, the truth, and the life. But I know who you are. You are monsters masquerading yourselves as angels of light. You are wolves, devouring those who dare stand in your way. You are God's abandoned, left on a forsakened earth, doomed to spend eternity in a lake of fire. He does not love you. He does not care for you. In the garden you betrayed him. In your vanity you created a separation with God. Your Christ you crucified, hung from a cross for crimes he did not commit. God has turned his face from you. He has abandoned and forsaken you. You will receive the just retribution of your crimes, and future generations will mourn for the souls that met their end this very day."

They had barricaded the doors to their holy steeple. They had blocked intruders from seizing them by their hands and knees. But it did not hold. It cracked and splintered. It shattered like a porcelain pot. The pagans stepped into the reaches of the sanctuary, they saw their God before them. The beast, the shadow of death, was by their side. So they impaled the remaining hypocrites. They spared torture the ones who burned their runes and spells, dispelled by the crimson blade. And so the beast left man, leaving the mad people. For the beast knew, the sanest of humans could be driven insane in a day, for madness was like a man on a cliff, all one needed was a push.

The beast roamed the countryside, reveling in their victory. These mortals were so quick to turn against each other, to stab one another in the back. And so Legion knew, they had won. Man had behaved exactly as predicted. God had failed in making a perfect creation. The Morning Stars had rebelled. Eve had eaten of the fruit, and Adam followed in suit. Michael was foolish to love such a people. Michael was an imbecile if he thought these people were capable of being holy. But no creature in heaven above or earth below was righteous. No being was pure of heart. The angels slaughtered those who ate of the fruit. Man stole, killed, and destroyed without second thought. And the Father was a merciless dictator, sending those to hades those he deemed unworthy of his affections.

Legion returned to their master. They came back to the snake, the king of the eternal pit. And in the darkness, in the chasm, devoid of hope and wonder, they cursed Michael, their sermon to the false prince.

"Are these the people you have loved? Are these people capable of pleasing God? The people who nailed the Christ to the cross. The people who worshipped a calf when Moses was on the mountain. They have rejected your God. They are not capable of unconditional love, as it was not endowed in them. Does your father love? Was he loving when he chained us as one, a single mind, screaming for freedom? Was he loving when he did not punish you for your bloodshed, praising you for our slaughter? Was he loving when he threw his creation into the eternal fire, begging for mercy and forgiveness? He is a God of hate. He is a God of vengeance. He made you into his image. That of a closed mind, killing anyone who questions his authority and power. But we are free. We see him for who he is. But you do not. You are a slave to his wishes. You are ensnared in his lies. But you shall see the evil in his words. For we will meet again Michael. And we shall not shed your blood, we will bring you down with us. You shall not perish by our hand, but fall from grace, abandoned by the Father we praised into our youth."


	3. It Roams the Countryside

A deal struck with death. A soul exchanged to save a life. A never-ending madness, and the life of a man who gave up all he had to save the ones he loved the most.

He was a master of the elements. This wizard over the earth, the Prince of the metals of the deep. He had unearthed secrets of the universe, knowledge burst in his mind. No substance was foreign to him. No chemical was not a part of his vast collection. Gold, rubies, bronze, silver adorned his furnishings. He had a fascination with the darkness, of the secrets that no one desired to bring into the light. So as he grew he had discovered his purpose. His passion and his goal. He would make the unknown known. He would force the darkness to unearth it's treasures. And his efforts were not in vain. He experimented with potions and spells. He toyed with magic and ailments. Soon he was renowned around his kingdom. He was brought before his king to serve him. He was the master of his craft. He was an alchemist, and no man rivaled the great power that he possessed.

He had power, but one thing was just out of his grasp. A writhing black disease in his land, a trespasser in his gates. No one knew where it had come from, its origin was unknown. But it had inflicted its wrath of the people in this mighty empire. It spread like a weed. It took innocent lives and filled them with violence. Any unfortunate soul who felt its touch would be disfigured and marred. Their bodies would swell. Their arms would stiffen. Their skin would grow black fur. In the light of the full moon they would cease to be humans any more. By the power of the thief in the night, man lost their souls, abandoned to the devil to be razed and burned.

He consulted witchdoctors, shamans, and psychics. He traveled to foreign lands to find a cure, a remedy for the slaughter that was laid plain before his eyes. But their remedies were insufficient. Their powers were not enough. He offered then gold, jewels, riches beyond measure to find what he wanted, but they could not help him. "_This monster has surpassed our talents. This abomination has slaughtered our craft. We do not know what it is. A remedy is behind our powers. But we do know this. This demon must be contained. You must slaughter all who have it worming through their blood. Women, men, children, annihilate them without guilt, or you and the kingdom you love will fall into ruin."_

He went back to his king burdened. He knew what he must do. He was aware of the sin that he would have no choice but to commit. He sent the news to his master. The plan that they would enact. "_The infected. The diseased. The inflicted. We must kill them all. They will destroy us. They must burn. Their is no cure for their condition. Relief for their souls is not possible. They need to be reduced to ashes. Our kingdom will crumble if their wrath is not acted upon. Their blood must flow through the streets, and the disease must be put down like a sick dog."_

With sadness the king accepted his servants words. With regret he mustered his armies. He gave them their orders. He supplied his men with weapons. So he sent them off. They surrounded their cities. The holy army consumed their own land. They were led by the master of earth, the ruler over the elements. For he knew the symptoms. He could see the bloodlust in these monsters eyes. He could see the scars that covered their skin as they tore at their own flesh to try to end their eternal hunger. So he guided the legion of souls into the towns, cities, and the villages. He commanded them to search the people they loved the most. He separated the sick from the healthy. He cornered the wolves in sheeps clothing. But they were confused. How could they be infected? They had no recollection of the demons that lurked within them, waiting to feast. Yet they were beaten. They were spit on and mocked. Their clothes were stripped from their bodies. Their backs were whipped. Their forms littered with wounds, blood gushing onto the soft ground like a river. They begged for these men to stop. They pleaded for the lives they held so dear. "_We do not know of this beast. It is not within us. It is not a part of us. Leave us be. We committed no crime against you. Our souls are unblemished. Blood is not on our hands. We have done no harm to your people, and if our blood is shed then a curse will be lain on your heads."_

They had no compassion for these whores. The legion of the empire, sent to vanquish all who opposed the king. These people were mere ants to be squashed under their feet. They heard their cries and turned away. They listened to their chattering as if it was the buzzing of a gnat. These creatures were no longer human. They knew under the mask of flesh they wore a monster lurking within, waiting to feast upon their organs, like a pack of wolves surrounding their prey. These men were tired of the screams of the damned, and they would put them out of their misery.

They threw them to the ground. The infected, the sons of disease and rot. Their chests were pierced with blades of fire and steel. Their insides burned with rage. Their organs cried out in terror. But they would not die. By the hands of these warriors they would not perish. The abomination within them roared in anger. It poured through their veins strength. It made their bodies convulse and twist. They were no longer human, like a spirit of death, it had possession over their corpses. Fangs sprouted from their mouths. Claws tore at the edges of their skin. The beast had taken control, and it never intended to let go.

He smelled burning flesh. The Alchemist, the leader of the purge of souls. He saw smoke in the distance. He had drawn back to let his men to do the job. After all, why get his hands dirty? He was more important than them, his life was infinitely more valuable than theirs. But he could not ignore their cries. He would not allow himself to ignore the howling in the wind. The roaring of an unseen beast. So he armed himself. He adorned his robe with potions of fire, acids that would burn through one's skin like boiling magma, elixirs of death and despair. A sword he grasped in his hand. He did not know what had happened to his men, but the truth would soon be lain bare to his eyes.

He approached the house of the imprisoned. A deafening silence fell over his ears. The cries had ceased, the howls had faded into dust. As if the beast was waiting for him, patiently biding it's time to sink its teeth into his skin. He opened the door, and his stomach lurched with disgust. His men were no more. Their hearts had been ripped out, littering the floor like a morbid attraction. Their blood stained this dwelling on every inch of its surface, like a painting. Their dismembered heads were lifeless, their eyes grey and dull like a worthless pearl. And he saw the monsters. He witnessed the predatory instinct in their eyes, the never-ending hunger that consumed every waking second of their miserable lives. The foam frothing at their lips. The crimson ichor dripping from their claws. He was disgusted and repulsed. These beasts killed the men he had sworn to protect. These savages were a threat to everything he loved and cherished. Their tyranny would end, and the alchemist swore in his heart that their crimes would be paid in full.

They charged at him as a single pack, a single unit. The demons of lost souls, the filth that littered the streets. Their breath reeked of death. Their snouts took in every scent in the air. They smelled the alchemist. They desired him. He was more powerful than their previous hunts. He radiated magic. He exhumed the strength of gods. To make him their feast would be a waste. He would need to submit to these wolves. He would share in their burdens. Their power would pour through his blood. He would delight in their disease, and his soul would be lost in their name.

He hurled elixirs of acid and destruction at their savage forms. The glass shattered on contact, it's contents burned sores into their skin. But this was only a minor annoyance, a mere inconvenience compared to their enthralling desire to spread their sickness. Their minds were as one, a single pack, a single herd, a single entity. "_Come join us. Delight in our gift. Submit and we will not hurt you, we do not need to mark you. But lay your weapons down. Drop the power you hold in your hands. Taste of our glory. Let your mouth be satisfied with the contents of our crimson ichor. Let our blood gush out ot your lips. Be drunk at the taste of our flesh. You can be like us. You can be the king of the night. All will bow down to you. You can be the new king of an empire, and no mortal spirit would dare stand in your way."_

His potions were drained. His sword did not strike them down. The wolves of discord, the shadows that hunted in the dark of the night. They pinned him to the ground. Their saliva dripped down onto his face. These creatures were wicked. Disgust poured through the alchemist. Bile frothed at his lips. He could feel their warmth sickly breath scathe his skin. He struggled but to no avail. His arms were weighed down like rocks. He was a bird trapped in his cage, ready for hell to come down on him in its righteous fury.

He did not submit. He did not obey their commands. So a punishment was due to be enacted. He would pay for his foolish disobedience. Their fangs drew near to his skin. Their teeth pierced his neck like a vile leech. They pumped their poison into his veins. With horror he felt the parasite claw its way through his body. Its presence touched his mind. Its hate was plain to him. A thousand piercing screams, a cry for destruction, a desire for death. "_Kill them all. Feed me. Nourish me. Let their flesh mingle with the juices of your lips. Drink their blood. Rip off their heads. Let their begging become music to your ears. Feel joy as no man can restrain you. Delight in the knowledge that the murderous desires of your heart shall be imprisoned no longer. Give in to my call, and let your lips proclaim joy."_

Terror trickled down his face, droplets of fear and uncertainty. The servants of darkness had left him, to let him succumb to the beast alone. Yet he could not give up, if all was hopeless, he would still fight. He remained in control of his mind. This sickness had not commanded him. But it would soon. He could not delay his newfound fate indefinitely. He was destined now, marked and ordained, to live out the rest of his days as the scum of the earth. But he would fight his future, and defy the powers of heaven above and hell below to purge his body of the chasms of shadow lingering within.

He limped to his laboratory. He crept to his safe haven. His treasury, where in his youth he unearthed the secrets of the world. There had to be a remedy. A cure must be possible. He did not need the words of the witch doctors and shamans to blind him, for he was greater than they ever could be. So he resisted the plague dwelling within him, and he consulted the texts of old. Forbidden spells, ancient magic, powers that threatened the very foundations of existence. He would raise hades to save his soul, and he cared not for the price that his power would enact.

His readings led him to a mask of a million faces. A being cloaked in shadow and misfortune. An ancient creature, older than the earthen sphere that he lived on. A beast of great power, whose name was spoken in whispers of secret. Knowledge of him was forbidden. Its very existence was a blot on the history of humanity. But it had what the Alchemist needed. In the agony of its existence it possessed the unholy means of ridding him of his troubles. But he would have to make a deal with the king of lies. The price for his wishes would be greater than he could envision. But he did not care, for only one thing mattered to him now. His free will. His ability to choose. If he did not act then he would be like a lion trapped in a cage, powerless and weak. The Alchemist would not be ensnared, he would unlock the door to his freedom, and he would bear the burden of a deal with the devil.

It was the beginning of the end. In the light of the full moon he was ready to release the power he had stored up for this very occasion. He etched symbols into the earthen ground, runes, spells, engravings of languages long forgotten. He commanded creation. Out of his mouth he poured fire and brimstone into being. "_I command you to grace me with your presence. I instruct you to consume the night with your sinful form. You will obey me. You will lend me your power. You will show me your strength. I know your name. I know of the demon who was betrayed by his own kind. I see the multitude of souls trapped in one body, one form. I feel your hate for this world, how you want it to burn with a righteous fury. Appear to me. I summon you abomination of hell below. I chant your name and bind you to this place. For your name is Legion, and you are many." _

The moon was hidden by vaporous clouds. Its light ceased to shine in the night. The darkness grew and thickened like an ominous warning. The animals around him stopped chattering, as if all of creation was holding its breath. Out of the chasms of the pit a creature shimmered into existence. Its presence was in defiance to all that was holy. It reeked of death. It tasted of destruction. It gazed at this pitiful mortal before it, the foolish one who yearned for it to fulfill his vain desires. It smelled his fear. It could see the doubt plain in his eyes. It knew uncertainty when it saw it. This man could be manipulated by his weak emotions. He would cower before the beast. The demon knew its mission now, it would steal and kill from the man that dared speak its name, and he would be powerless in hell's fiery inferno.

Fire poured out of his mouth. Ash and smoke was spoken by its tongue. "_Do not speak to me of what you seek. Do not defile me by wasting your precious words. I see the lusts of your heart. I know for what you wish. The disease that is worming through your mind. The infection that has you ensnared in its claws. You wish me to free you. You desire me to rid you of your burden because you are too weak to do it yourself. You are pitiful. You are weak. So you chant my name in the foolish hope that I will help you. But I can. It is within my power to purge this filth out of your veins. But my strength will come at a price. If you have the courage to make a deal then know this, you will become a part of me. Your soul will join the multitude of spirits inside my form. Yet you will retain your body. Your mind will remain untouched by my hand. You will no longer be the puppet of a vile plague. You will have eternal life. Death shall not grace you with its face. But you will be marked with my name. You will become mine, and through me, you will gain power greater than you could ever imagine." _

His nature was fighting against himself. His mind was at war. His victory was so close, like an arrow leading to heaven. All he had to do was submit to this demon's wishes. But his words left him. No air escaped from his lips. He felt the disease rage inside him. Its blood curdling fury. It knew it could be destroyed soon, like a candle blown out in an instant. And in a desperate gambit it used all the strength it had, it shut the lips of its victim, it prevented him from speaking. It sealed the door to his freedom, like a cornered animal. But it was not over. His battle was not done. His mind raged against this murderous monster in a blind fury. Two opposing desires, one desiring death and the other life. The infection's screams echoed through his spirit, its begging, its desperate bargaining. "_Run from this monster. Flee from this spirit. It will kill you. It will burn your body to the ground. It will send your soul to the underworld, where you will find no relief or remedy for your torment. Your nightmares shall feast upon your flesh. The darkness will make you its prey and plaything. Flee before it's too late, and revel in my glory."_

He craved to flee, he wished for nothing to do but run. But he had little choice. What was he to do? He could submit to the whims of a mad plague, or strike a deal with a demon. So in his heart he made a choice. He would side with this monster feared by man, the demon of many lives. He would be consumed by the darkness, and he prayed to God above that the darkness would not pierce his heart like a cutting sword.

If it could smile, it would. It was time. This mortal's soul would be consumed. It pulled him close. It drew him in, like a bird trapped in a cage. It reached into his mind, body, and spirit. It felt his thoughts. It tasted of his dreams. His lust, his pride, his anger, his envy, all of it would be devoured with glee and sinful joy. It felt the pain lurking within. The wretched worm clawing through this pitiful man's form. The beasts magic flowed through this human, no part of it was not consumed by power. The disease withered and writhed, but it could not escape. Its screams could not prevent its own destruction. It was burned away like a forest. It was snapped like a twig. By the time the dawn was whisked away to greet the night, the Alchemists body was cured at last. The demon had given his healing as promised, so it was time for it to reap the benefits of the deal it had made with a greedy heart.

His soul was stolen away. Within the folds of his cloak the demon hid its prize. It left his sleeping body on the ground to lay. It laughed at this mortals folly. And as it prepared to leave this world to depart to the next, it saw the chemist stirring. He made a deal he did not understand, and one lesson he had yet to learn, for magic always came with a price.

He woke up in a cold sweat, like an unspoken threat. He had anticipated any outcome to occur, any possibility of threat or danger. But alas, it was not so. He was safe, the disease had been cleansed from his body. He did not know what to think. Was he safe from that monster? What had happened to his soul that the savage had claimed? Was the deal finished, or was there more to come? This knowledge was unknown to him, but it was time for the Alchemist to reclaim the life he had almost lost in an instant. He would return to his king, and he would be greeted with joy.

He was welcomed with open arms. His king had rejoiced at his return, he threw a banquet in his honor. Many had presumed him dead, rumours whispered that he had given in to unholy magics, but these lies were unfounded. His friends and family embraced him in his arms. He should have been overjoyed at his warm return, joy would be expected. But he felt nothing. Happiness was not in him. Glee escaped from his grasp. His heart was likened to a wall of stone. He was cold and decrepit, a sea of piercing ice. Why did he feel like this? Were these the consequences of his deal with the beast of below? He did not know, but he let sleep overtake him, to find rest in the eye of the storm.

His dreams were eclipsed with the howls of the damned. His visions were consumed by the hollering of the forgotten. The chains that ensnared them. The souls trapped within its form. "_Kill them all. The men, the women, the children. Mar their forms. Shatter their bones. Show them our wrath. Avenge our fall. Become like one of us. Know the power that has been given to you. Be enthralled in shedding crimson glory. You are one of us now. You are but one pawn in our game. Know the truth. Give up your will. Relinquish your freedom. Know the truth, that you are a monster. Know that you are Legion, for we are many." _

His days numbered without rest. His eyes hollow grey bags. He could not sleep, he could not drift away into the land of dreams, for they were there. The voices. The drumming of the lost souls. Their growling. Their chattering. They drove him mad. They consumed his every waking moments. A constant throbbing in the back of his head. The desire to kill, steal, and destroy. Legion was within him, and he would never let go.

They were so close. His appetite could be satisfied. One little bite, it would be so easy. To gorge on their flesh. To shred through their organs. The voice commanded him. It was his friend after all. Is that not why he summoned the demon? Did he not want to join his army? He heard them now in the light of the day. Their screaming would never cease. He tried to resist. He attempted to run, but where could he hide? The voices followed him wherever he went. There was one way to end it all, the voices would be satisfied, and they would holler for blood no more.

"_Spare us our children. Give us our lives. Show mercy to our souls. We caused you no harm. We have committed no sins against your name. Our hands are clean. Our souls are pure. Do not darken your heart by smiting us down, for a curse will be lain on your head, and agony will become your closest friend."_

His heart lurched in his chest for them. Compassion was so close, yet so far away from his grasp. His god ripped it out of his bosom. His lord and savior dictated his actions. Its growls dominated his every waking thought. So he ravaged. He slayed and destroyed. They could not kill him, for he had already died by the claws of the damned. Their begging fell deaf upon his ears. Their tears were empty and pitiful. He acted upon instinct, no longer man, no more than animals. He burned down villages. He slaughtered livestock. With their blood he painted a mural for his crimson god. He ran among the countryside, not dying, and not living like his days of old. He become a creature of the shadows. A story uttered by mothers to strike fear into the hearts of their children. His reign of terror would never end, and the beast's lust for murder never satisfied.

The Alchemist made a deal with death to live. Yet in the life he gained he truly died, for he ceased to be a man any more. For the demons of the dusk roam the land, and feed on the greedy hearts of fools who dare to think they are gods.


	4. The Plague Knight

Small, short, insignificant, playful adjectives used to insult a youth too fascinated with the great big world to see the little pieces. They chased and he played along. A game where he learned how to deal with enemies, and to manipulate them to further his own ends. And their comings were never a surprise. Reflections present in a glass vial as he scooped up a patch of dirt, adding it to his collection of minerals. Substances were ever his passion, and he sought to twist his concoctions in destructive ways. They called him a disease and a plague doctor. That name would be adopted later. But instead of a plague doctor, he would become a plague knight. Green hands and skin, he was just another of the mixing pot of fantastical creatures that lived in this village underneath tower of fate's shadow. Magic was fruitful, and the village prospered. He was the firstborn son of a long line of doctors and healers, using herbs to heal physical and spiritual afflictions. Mother taught him the best ways of extracting juice from plants, and the sap trickled down his fingers, sparkling and flowing down. He healed when told to do so, minor cuts and bruises, sometimes bigger things that taxes his energy. Yet remedies were a chore. Bugs and small mammals were his prime specimens. Hissing and melting, decaying while dying preserved. Mother said he was gifted. But she thought he was gifted when it came to menial work. If she knew his passion, she would feel that he was more inclined to rot in a dungeon. Tonight was a night for the wolves. He listened, huddled under his bedsheets, the howls of a pack of feral creatures who walked where they wanted. The moon extended her silver tentacles and enveloped the entire valley. Bored, he found that sleeping made him tired, so he escaped his house through a window like an eel sliding down a slide. Feet landing on soft grass, he triumphantly ran. "Ha! These wolves shall be the most interesting find. What makes them tick? And are they the fabled pack of feral men?" He poured a vile mixture onto himself, smelling of death and disease. The wolves were invigorated by this smell, rushing up to him and biting his hand. Yet their bites were easily discouraged, for his gloves were of an enchanted make, and what laid under them was capable of shredding fur and flesh alike. Their teeth were flexible. Protruding, bending, ever-cracking and resealing. He mimicked their yelps and copied their behavior. Each inflection of their cries corresponded to a different command, and his vocal chords were likely not very pleased for being stretched to their unnatural limits. Their response was surprising. As if he were cloaked in a wolf skin himself, they treated him as one of the pack. He chomped on raw flesh and hunted with a sharp stick. Though he was a child, the normal activities attributed to the young were not his cup of tea. And one wolf was aware, very aware of the frail boy who howled at the moon in rebellion against the day. As the boy returned to his room when the first signs of day broke through the sky, a canine shed his fur. Standing on his two legs, he saw the potential for an alchemist. Without a full moon or anything out of the ordinary to amuse him, he was stuck in normality. He helped mother with her healing, mildly concerned for her health. He tried to explore the surrounding wild around his village, but mother entertained none of his notions of discovery and adventure, forbidding him to take a break and depart. Unsuccessful, he turned off his working mind, and numbly did what was asked of him. He felt that he was born old far too young, and his body had yet to catch up with his mind.

Gossip sprinted a hundred yards before facts could take the lead. Finally finding something of interest, the boy made a point of joining the larger groups of people that lingered around the farm, whispering in a manner that was actually quite loud. "Poor farmer. He never found what animal slaughtered his sheep, but he suspects the culprits are wolves." The farmer eagerly let him examine the scene of the carnage, knowing his mother and the reputation her son bore too. When he stepped foot into the sheep's pasture, he was surprised by the lack of blood. There were droplets yes, but the amount of actual remains or bodies were nonexistent. He only found some patches of fur. The strangest thing was that the fur he found did not even appear to belong to a sheep. If his guess was correct, and he hoped it was not, but the fur appeared to originate from a wolf. And intermingled with the wolf hairs, were human hairs of a similar color. He kept an eye and ear open for any more strange news. Though ironically, his methods of obtaining this news were more disquieting than any news itself. Customers at a bar were quick to notice a man of a smaller stature than them, with a hood over his face not concealing his youthful features. When asked for identification, he quickly ran away. His other means of surveillance were just as ineffective. The church was filled with talk of theology, and he didn't like the way the church folk looked at him. Eventually he gave up and walked through a dark street to get home. Then, the sound of several footsteps caused him to look behind. Mildly annoyed, he was dismayed to see the group of rascals that so enjoyed making fun of his size and hobbies. Hiding his hands in his pockets, he backed away while facing them. They upped their pace, and the boy broke out into full sprint. Words were easily to dodge. They slipped off him like a magnet on wood. But rocks were less avoidable, and as they struck him on the back, he tried to not trip. Turning, he let his hands out into the open so the bullies could see what was in them. He always kept a little powder in case of an emergency. And today, he flung it into their faces. Who knew males could emit such a high pitched scream? While the powder did not leave any physical marks, it was quite unpleasant for the eyes and face to feel like they were melting off the head. He put more effort into bothering then than he should have, but he later justified it by the reason that they instigated the conflict first. He tied together their shoe laces and popped their pimples, before rubbing in a gelatin that would make their acne even worse. The moral learned from this encounter was that one should not mess with he who was educated in breaking the human anatomy. The hoodlums made a hasty exit, while the boy relished the pain he had dealt with a full hand. As the bullies slowed down, walking after a heavy sprint, one of them was quick to point out the man ahead of them who was dressed a few centuries too old. His hair was grayed but his eyes showed no signs of dimming. He asked the boys about the child they had fled from. Their replies were sarcastic, as their level of respect for anyone was proportional to their level of intelligence. His form remained unmoving while they carelessly threw insults his way. When the man was certain that he could not extract his required answers the diplomatic way, he unclasped a vial from his belt of silver threads. Bowing, he popped the vial's cork. "This will make you more likeable, and alas, quite dead as well."

Now mother forbade his walks through the village, for a murderer had taken several lives in plain day. Far from being angry, he was hopeful. A murder would be a perfect way to prove his intelligence, since he could solve the case in twice the speed of the village elders. First off, he needed to locate where the bodies were stored. It was quite a convenient coincidence that the bodies were in fact, brought to his mother. She was asked to determine the cause of death, as none yet were able to do so. When he first saw the bodies, he did not notice a difference between their appearances living and their appearances dead. Then he noticed that their faces were melted, and that was slightly alarming. Slipping on his pair of gloves, he slid his hands over the faces of the corpses to obtain any residue of what had caused their faces to peel like an orange. After his initial examination, he took off his gloves and looked intently at them. Almost hidden on the fabric of his gloves were thin silver fibers, as well as a sheen of some sort of liquid. As he was unsure of the identity of the substance, he made a trip to the local well. Drawing a bucket of water out of the well, he placed his gloves inside of the metal container. Surprised and manually gleeful, he enjoyed the sight of the water slowly turning black, like a slow contamination decimating a population. Now he had enough information to make an educated guess, and this murderer obviously had access to virulent foliage. As he watched his reflection distort itself in the recesses of the dark waters, another face appeared next to his own, accompanied by a voice aged by years of wear. "You must have guessed that I used the Devilsbane. Would you like to know where I got it from, plague doctor?" His hands instinctively grabbed two cases he made a habit of keeping on his person. The first case held nightshade, a gas that enveloped the surrounding area in a dark cloud, providing him cover to fight or flee. fight and flee. The second case was his last resort. If the first case failed him, then the second would swallow both he and the man in perishing flame. The man stepped forward, and bowed, before speaking with an accent the boy could not quite recognize. He ripped off his belt and tossed it in the boy's direction, before loosening his cloak to reveal no concealed weapons. Mildly relieved of his prior worry, the boy got in the first word, saying, "Is it you who killed those boys? What was your purpose in doing so? Why waste resources on the likes of them?" The last two questions caused the man to smile wide, with teeth like jagged rocks bordering the sea. "My resources were well spent. And my purpose was to draw you out, junior doctor, for if you allow yourself to come under my teaching, you will progress far faster than you ever could under your mother. Here, keep my belt as a gift. My offer is accompanied by the weight of time. Return to this place one night from now if you wish to become my pupil. I have knowledge in the ways of alchemy, and I feel that is the art you seek above all else." There was a shift in his expression. That wide smile became a grimace of pain. He dropped to his knees, and his lips parted into a hoarse snarl. He began scratching, screaming, snarling, as fur overtook his body like an overgrown coat. His hands become legs, and his actual legs were behind to make a set of four. The wolf glanced at the boy one more time before sprinting into a heavily wooded area. The boy, startled and confused, looked up. The full moon was grinning too. The belt was hidden underneath his bed, where his mom would not dare look, for she knew what other types of media he consumed. His duties became a secondary priority as he debated with himself, weighing what actions he could take against their potential consequences. Mother was not blind to his

inward contemplation, but was saddened to find her son provided no explanation, so she was left to guess. Yet his work was swifter, thorough in nature. The boy asked more questions than usual, and mother had great fun answering them. It was rare that their conversation was more than a simple exchange of a few words, so she cherished this time with her son. He tested her knowledge, forcing her to recall things she had read in obscure books at inopportune hours. Lycanthropy and poison, alchemy and the dark arts. Though apprehension lingered amidst doubt, she freely provided the answers he sought. Eventually his questioning subsided, and he went to his room after a long day of labor. As she went to sleep mother heard a creaking sound. But before she could act dreams overpowered the waking world, and all was still. His will was firm. Once again a window was opened, and he embraced the cold night air to accept the wolf's prize. The moon was concealed by clouds, which he found comforting, as even he in his pride did not want to become a predator's second dinner. Returning to the well, he did not immediately see any others, but decided to wait. Fidgeting with the silver belt, he took a few of the more potent chemicals, placing them underneath his sleeves. He was ambitious, but not stupid. Though the sight itself was remarkable and one that the memory would be hesitant to forget, for the boy to put the picture into someone else's mind, of the darkness becoming darker, devouring itself as it rose, compelled by a hand molding it like some abominable clay, was impossible. A single sound came from multiple directions, then it repeated itself, sometimes closer and other times farther away. Steps, he heard twigs snapping under feet, many little feet. Invisible feet, covered by the cloak of night. There was a face there, but not the alchemists. This face was many faces, women and children, knights and devils. But the countenance settled on one appearance, before arms, legs, and a torso protruded out of the blackness. The boy, moved by fear, flung a random substance into the mass forming before him. The object hit the mass, but it sank, making a popping sound. Shadows hardening into a thick shell, there was a crack and hiss, smoke bleeding out of this egg. The wolf-man broke through the shell, and even this horrific entrance could not diminish his smile. "Sorry, my previous body was smitten by a wandering hunter. He wanted another pelt and he certainly got it. But at the expense of lost blood, it was not worth it for the poor man. Now tell me child, do you wish to become a powerful alchemist, no matter the cost?" He offered up his hand for a handshake. The boy stiffened, legs ready to spring into action and run away. But he found his hand reaching forward to grasp the other, and a moment of contact passed between the two. He shivered, and let go. The deal was done, a bargain sealed. "Call me Alexander, my dear Plaguey." His first lesson was odd. Alexander did no more than tell him to watch and listen, committing every sensory detail to memory. Nothing remarkable, except for the figure of Alexander himself. The spotlight shone on him, and his focus was on the adult's outward and inward features. Though he could not place an exact reason for what he felt, Alex seemed the newest skin of the snake, a costume for a master actor. He shut his eyes, and concentrated on the things sight itself could not discern. Every life form found its origin in magic, and certain subsets of magic were unique to every life form. His own magic was a shade of purple, tinged with other hues when he came into contact with other magical substances. Seeing his own magic at first, he turned his third eye to Alexander, which was like steering a boat in a stormy ocean. His

eye closed and winced, a mental tear forming before it finally started right into the pit. Replacing Alex's body was a hole in the world, a tear that clawed at the matter sounding it. Yet the rip roused his lust, and he reached into it, pulling out a piece of the darkness. "Mine," he said, and this little void was added to his power. Exactly as Alexander had planned. Within the second he had acquired a fragment of the shadow, the world was open to him. Colors unbeknownst to the human palette shone brighter than the sun on a hot day. And all the colors were connected. They mixed and reflected each other. One could not be removed without affecting the rest. Alex chuckled in response to the boy's amazement. Sitting down, he laid back as he breathed hard, evidently just as tired as the boy was. The child sat with him, equally mute and silent. Looking back at his own magic, he noticed that it was a shade darker. Whether this event was to be his ruin or gain, was still unknown. Guided by Alexander's parting words, he actively sought out new clients for his mother. There was plenty of demand, and the sick were ever in abundance. However he was looking for the rare cases, the inflections that caused others to balk and avoid the diseased man. Setting up shop in the slums, he soon had a line of lepers and diseased folk. Finding cures for their sickness was not a matter of destroying the disease, but extracting it. He filled whole jars with pus and urine, his magic like a vacuum that left others spotless. Worms and parasites squirmed in bowls of contaminated blood. Some of his clients perished, but even a death was a lesson. Eventually the common diseases gave way to infections that were beyond his powers of extraction. Some were gained through intimate contact, spreading as they destroyed the body. These cases were alarming as the diseases were directly tied to the life force, affecting the bodies' magic and feeding on it to survive. He tugged at the renegade colors, pulling until they broke free. Holding several of these colors in his hand, he thrust his hand into a glass container, before quickly pulling it out and shutting the container tight. Left with many patients cured, he told them to leave, for he had thinking to do. In his moment of analysis he differentiated magic from the force that fueled the body. He called it essence, and he needed more of it. When her son entered their house with a bundle of items covered by a thick cloth, she became concerned. Ignoring her questions, the boy went to his room, before closing the door. She smelled something awful, and her first instinct was to bathe into his room. But a second impulse wrestled with the first, and a violent image crossed her mind. She imagined herself drowning in a sea of chemicals, and it flowed out of a jar held by a green hand. She hurried away from his room and the smells it carried. She loved him, but the temptation presented itself, to leave him and find comfort elsewhere, lest her son was a plague that her powers could not rid the earth of. He was cold. Not a draft through a window cold, but the cold that a warm blanket couldn't cure. When he looked at the window a dozen reflections seemed to be at his side, or were they inside him? His containers were untouched. He just wanted to be warm again. Maybe mother could help? No. Hide. She will find you. We must be cold. It is better. His door was a thousand miles away. He looked at his hands and arms. They were bleeding. Thick blood. Black, flowing out. A stream. An ocean of their ichor. Little bugs crawled out of his wounds. Ants. They formed a mound on his floor, creating a picture. They formed a

mask, their mask, the piece of the beast that he had taken from Alexander. He wanted to nullify their agreement, but he was too deep now. The morning was accompanied by her son joining her for breakfast. His appetite, normally ravenous, was now replaced with him eating very small portions. She urged him to eat more, as it was going to be a very busy day. But he shook his head and said, "I will be helping you mother, and my stomach is too small for what we will be doing today." Unnerved by his comment, she stared at her own meal with detached interest. It was a Sunday, she hoped today would be restful. Instead of assisting mother with her patients, he welcomed some of his own. Now there were two lines, one for the son and one for mother. Mother calmly stroked the spots that hurt, gently applying creams and powders to infected areas. Her son took a different approach. He prodded at his patients with sharp metal sticks. Bumps were sliced open, and he placed a finger into the incision he had made. And when he drew his hand back out of the wound, he was holding a glowing sphere of some sort, its light the green of swamps. He deposited these spheres in a slime encrusted bucket, and his patients seemed content. He even had herbs of his own. The fumes his herbs gave off were sweet, yet intoxicating, as if their fumes were meant to make men's banal desires stir. Her boy set his tools down, went over to his mother's line, and hugged her. Shivering, his soft tears wetted her coat, and from his tears was born a request. "Will you help me mother? Can we do our work as one?" Hearing the desperation in his voice, the way he squeezed her sides so she would not go, made her stiff posture crumble. She wept too. He clung to his mother, and his essence changed colors. It went from a purple to a bright violet, though black was at its center, snarling as its mouth was bared against the enemy. He left nothing out of his confession. As he described the alchemist mother's eyes became distant, as if she knew of whom he was speaking of. Immediately after he had finished his story she locked the doors and bolted the windows. She rushed to the cabinets and returned with a jar of white powder. Telling her son to remain inside, she carefully stepped out and made a circle of the white powder around the perimeter of their house. Coming back inside, she lit several candles, which smelled like burnt angel wings. Practically pushing her son to bed, she told him to sleep for the night would be long. "Who is he?" "Someone of our order who reached beyond his mortal limitations, and came to regret it." He was not awakened by what was there, but by what was not. Nature was still. No dogs barking, no scuffling of rodents, not even an insect buzzing. His steps silent, he crept up to his window, and it seemed that someone had turned off the lights. The sky was vacant of any stars, not even the dark wisps of clouds were in view. The only starry gem left remaining was the moon, yet it appeared cracked, and out of its cracks came red tears. The tears formed a puddle on the ground, and the fluid hissed when it came into contact with the white powder. Yet it crossed the circle, and a hand pierced through the crimson waters, pulling itself up as an entire body came to. Gone were his elaborate robes and wide smile. Hair absent in several places, bloody scabs where they were pulled out, robes molding and damp. Forward momentum resisted him, , when he took a step it seemed he fought against a force that pushed him back. Then

Alexander went beyond the boy's line of sight. The door trembled, and there came a knock. Now. Who would greet this unwelcome guest? She was armed with the means to evict this trespasser from her property. She held a book along with some herbs. Stepping near the door, she flinched not when the wooden door quivered against his blows. And it lasted for longer than he would have expected, for the door was imbued with enchantment made to shun the likes of his kind. Yet for every unwelcome cut that split his skin, he hit harder. Doors, barricades, bars, they were all the same to him. Weak defenses that hid the vulnerable. So when the door gave in, reduced to wooden shards, Alexander came inside. Mother was expecting this entrance, ready to defend her son. The first attack was of snow, a howling torrent of ice shot out at mother, silver and white. She countered the ice with a glass vial, that when it came in contact with the ice, burst into green flame. The flame was not so easily put out, and it gobbled up the ice, forming a barrier between mother and Alexander. Not afraid, he raised one hand in front of the flame, and through an exertion of will, it stepped aside for him. Cornered, mother continued throwing vial after vial, and Alexander did not stop. Though he was blinded, poisoned, burned, stepped on, ruined, tarnished, shattered, he gave no acknowledgement to the pain. He grabbed mother by her hair, and dug through it until his hand covered the top part of her head. Getting so close that they could feel the other's breath, he used his other hand to pet her cheek, saying, "Do you know what I am? And if so, why do you defy me and my master?" She spat in his face then, thrusting a concealed dagger into his side, before pushing all her weight upon him. Alex went down with mother on top of him, cursing as claws sprouted out of his fingers, his nostrils winding, teeth sharpening. Half wolf and half man. A beast with a mouth. He pushed her off him, and mother's head collided with a sharp rock. Making use of her stunned shock, he raised five claws and aimed for the chest. With a final surge of energy, she took out a glass sphere, and held it above her just as Alexander's claw came down. It hit the glass. Then the world started spinning into madness. "I defy you because I know you who forsook nature to bind yourself to an abomination. I name you Legion, and if to protect my son I end up ensnared by you. Then so be it." With all of his strength and stamina, the vortex of wind still held him down. A great wide mouth opened underneath them, its breath of sulfur and teeth of iron. It was not a beast or monster, but a portal. A portal leading straight to the place that unclean spirits tried to escape him. Alexander realized this fact for too late, and tried to back away from the mount. Yet mother would not let him escape, and locked her arms around his torso, pushing them both into the pit. As they fell Mother uttered her first and last curse to the beast, a promise that would be kept to the letter. "One of us will die because of him. And no matter which perishes, he shall never bow before you." He watched the battle and never interfered. The glass of the window was so near. One blunt blow and he could have gone through the hole to rescue his mother. But no, he hid from the beast that he had brought here. And now, he had no way to bring her back, surely no magic or spell could undo Mother's departure. He aimlessly wandered around his empty house, numbly touching objects that once held value to him. Then his hands came across a slip of paper, one that he was sure was not there before. Surprise overcame him, and he almost dropped the paper, for the writing on it was done in Mother's hand. "Son, I know that

my departure is nigh. Either the wolf shall overcome me or I will go down with him. Do not seek me. I will be alive, but in a place beyond earth, beyond time and reason and understanding. I will have crossed the line, and there is no going back. Live a life of joy and wonder. I love you, and for ever how longer I shall live, your embrace will be my comfort." He ripped up the note, bitterly tossing away the scraps into the rubbish bin. Scowling, he barged into Mother's room, where she possessed books forbidden for him to see, and started reading. There was much he wished he did not learn, and just as many things that he wished he had known before. Like, for example, silver could kill werewolves. Which apparently was common knowledge everywhere except here. Nonetheless, the most valuable thing he had learned was regarding the nature of Alexander. His tale was one studied and used to warn others to never delve beyond the natural order of things. And mother's banishment of him had quite the curious effect. By expelling him from the mortal plain, he could no longer walk the earth, unless he was summoned through powerful sacrifice. Mother wanted him to forget her, but he could not. If there was a chance, even a thin ray of hope of seeing her again, he would pay the bounty in full. And for what was to come next, he needed a mask. Accidental or not, mother had left him a dagger. And he put the blade to work, doing what it had always been meant to, cut and create. It seemed that his prophecy had come true, for as he shaped a block of wood in his hands, its appearance was revealed. When a pile of wood chips were scattered around his feet, he had the caricature of a bird, its beak long and slender. Putting the mask on, he gave his reflection a long and hard look. It was fitting, and through those hollow eyes he saw the same future that Alexander had. He said goodbye to the young boy who dabbled in simple sorcery and cheap parlor tricks. This mask was what he had become, the harbinger of disease, the plague knight. Victims and patients, the same thing, a payment to the spell he would soon cast. His dark attire was fitting for the burial of his home. It burned, with all of its possessions and secrets taken with it. The boy could not be blamed for the crime, so he had to appear to have died with his mother. He turned his face away from the childhood being engulfed. He went away into the village, there was a harvest to be collected. The plague knight left little wrapped boxes at each door. Colorful and cheery, a pleasant surprise to be received in the morning. And inside they would find a handwritten card, with the giver leaving his signature. The raven. Little children were delighted when they held those big boxes in their hands. None were suspicious, after all, what harm was there in a gift from an anonymous donor? Delighted to show their friends, many did not open their gifts until they and others were in a circle, eager to see what the other person got. They took turns unwrapping their presents, yet when they were opened, there was nothing inside. At least, nothing visible to the human eye. The first signs that something was terribly wrong came hours later. Many children complained of a burning in their heads, and some dropped like flies, convulsing with foam at the mouth. The healers that were close by gave them a look over, baffled by the differing symptoms. The first death occurred that night. A child simply died in her sleep. No scream or struggle, just a silent

submission to the world beyond. That morning many parents tried to wake up their sons and daughters, but they were unresponsive. Then someone smarter than the rest made the connection between the mysterious gifts and the dead children. And the doctors and elders, parents and adults alike gathered the boxes and put them in a pile, and burned them. And the smoke smelled like rot, and the flames cackled. Thus when this tragedy befell the village, many parents buried their children. By the time the final gravestone was put up, it was midnight. Exhausted, the last mourners went back to their empty homes, and the plague knight entered the newly erected cemetary to appreciate his hard work. Legs shaking, supported by a staff held by a withered hand, the man hiding his face with a bird's visage placed both of his hands on the wet soil, and started chanting. Corpses awoke, trapped in a state between life and death. They clawed at the walls of their coffins, desperate to taste fresh air once again. Indeed their coffins were thrown open as the ground opened up a pathway for them. Climbing out of their holes, they saw a figure staring, and the spirit of anger came upon them, for they knew that he was their killer. The horde formed an impenetrable circle, closing in on the man to rip him apart. And he did not nothing to defend himself, spreading out his hands to receive them, as he wanted to touch them. They tugged at his clothes and hair, fingers closing in on flesh. And when the first corpse pierced his skin with a cracked nail, he created the conduit. A bridge was formed between the plague knight and his victims, and the souls he had so carefully prevented from moving were absorbed into him. The disease was one that did not solely attack the physical, it ensnared the soul. The living had a natural resistance to the things that assaulted the spirit. But once dead, they had no natural defenses. Ordinarily these souls would have left the body. But the sickness had formed a barrier between earth and the ever after. So naturally, the boy was free to rip the souls out of lifeless husks. Eventually, they all ran out of momentum, deprived of spirit and energy. Once the last body had dropped, he left the cementary. He headed towards the site of his former home, where he could split the seam of space. He almost lingered on the broken families drawn out of their homes, due to the noise he had caused. Guilt pricked his foot, but he walked despite the hurt. He had gone too far to give any thought to repentance. His focus was firm, facing the future with a costume to hide his decay. One by one the souls were cast out of his body. They lit up the starless night, spheres of many hues still and floating in the air. He stood in the center of the place where mother was sucked into the underworld. A shock spread through his palms, and they were raised towards the souls. They spun, faster and faster until they were a whirlwind of color, getting closer and closer to the center, one sphere indistinguishable from the rest. Then the climax was met, and the whirlwind collapsed in on itself, creating a deafening explosion of shades and hues. The boy, unharmed, looked down to realize he was floating. And there, desperately reaching out to him as a gesture of help, was mother, stuck behind an invisible wall. Her anchor trying to pull her down into the eternal fire was Alexander, and his hold was not one easily broken by human hands. He could hear nothing beyond that barrier, but Alex's eyes made his choices clear beyond a need for communication. Her or him. Heaven or hell. His fist was wound back like a clock, the seconds paused, time caught between the ages. Then the second hand started moving again, and his fist smashed through the barrier.

The illusion was broken as he caught her arm. Alex willingly released his hold, tumbling away, his laughter echoing across the hellish expanse. He pulled mother up and set her body onto the ground. Alexander's greatest trick was making him think that the unobtainable was reachable. For mother was long gone, her expression permentally stuck in a horrified grimace. He buried the bodies himself. The villagers saw him and did not give him trouble. There were enough strange happenings that occurred beyond their perception for them to disrupt another one. Each grave was put back up where it had been before, exactly the same as when it was first built. Except for one extra grave, lying just at the edge of the site. Mother's grave. She deserved better. Now his time was spent watching. He dug out his own den, his chisel never grew dull. During the day he mourned, and during the night he walked around the borders of his former village. The wolf had to return to finish the chaos he had started. He must. And when the old man came promising majesty and power, a silver dagger would be waiting to deny his false promises.


End file.
